Poetry, today, is something utopian: it balances the purity of sentiment with the need to be grounded, pragmatic, and productive; it celebrates contemplative otium in favor of industrious negotium. It is of much use when the common opinion is that it serves no purpose. Yet poetry has a wild and primordial power: it arises from the deep human urge to shape impressions, moods and sensations through words. In its raw etymology it simply means making, composing.
This collection, presented by verses sent into the ether and recited over the telephone, celebrates poetry as a utopia made true and a way of shaping inner chaos. Sentimental in the movement that generates it, it is a fleshy and carnal florilegium of delicate and sensual feelings, composed in a language that dries them up and gives them rhythm to amplify them. The process of reduction and trimming is the same as composing verses: stripping down to maximize.
The circadian rhythm follows the path of a day: it opens in the white and neutral delicacy of the morning, burns in the zenith light, sparkles in a starry night run by metallic threads. It is a luxuriance of flowers and motifs, on forms that, on the contrary, are essential, like a couplet or a haiku: the caftan, the kimono, the souvenir jacket, but also the blazer closed by an obi, the pullover, the shirt, and then the boxing shorts, the very long shirt, the immaterial duster coat.
The male body is perceived behind the nets, through the perforations of the broderie anglaise that run on t-shirts and shirts, in the transparencies of impalpable materials such as the silks of the caftans, the linens of suits and metalized cottons, under the flow of crushed satins in the tailored suits, in the sensuality of the swimming trunks worn with a shirt. Volumes are soft, and accompany the movement. Shoes with rope soles and sandals seal the idea of lightness. Otherwise, one goes barefoot, to reconnect with the earth, celebrating poetry as a utopia of dolce far niente of utmost importance, tinged with gentle eroticism.